


Takeover

by DwarvenBeardSpores, LauraDoloresIssum



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Aziraphale's bookshop, Blood, Capitalism, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Strexcorp, questionable business practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 22:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraDoloresIssum/pseuds/LauraDoloresIssum
Summary: Aziraphale is very good at turning people away from his shop, but a certain smiling, blood-covered stranger is more persistent — and disturbing — than most.





	Takeover

It was some number of years after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t when something else that wasn’t an Apocalypse began stirring. Or maybe it had been stirring for some time now, and nobody had bothered to pay attention. The forces of Heaven and Hell, still recovering from the embarrassment of building up to a war that ended up not happening, couldn’t be bothered, and their representatives on Earth didn’t notice until one afternoon when the angel’s bookshop received a visitor. Two visitors, actually, but one of them was Crowley, who let himself in whenever he felt like it and never bought anything, so he didn’t really count.

Crowley had brought scones and, while he and Aziraphale ate, made a point to drop crumbs over as much of the bookstore as possible. Aziraphale sighed and made a mental note to miracle them away after Crowley was done.

There was a knock at the door. 

“I thought I put the sign up. Oh… something-that-isn’t-shit, because I really oughtn’t swear,” Aziraphale said through a mouthful of scone.

“You just said shit anyway,” Crowley pointed out. 

“Fuck.”

There was another, more demanding knock. 

“Anyway, go tell whoever it is that I’m not open and I don’t have what they want.” Aziraphale waved a hand, and Crowley rolled his eyes but went to the door anyway, taking the opportunity to scatter more crumbs. The front window was covered in a purposeful layer of grime, and the sign did indeed read CLOSED, on both sides in fact. Crowley pulled it open. 

“We’re closed—” he began, but his voice died when he saw the person on the front step, or more specifically, all the blood covering him.

“Oh good, I just _knew_ I’d find somebody here today,” the stranger said. Under the blood, which Crowley was pretty sure wasn’t his own, he wore a suit and a yellow tie and a wide smile, which  Crowley thought might have been more than his own. There was entirely too much smile. 

“Actually, there’s nobody here,” he said abruptly, with as much occult power as he could muster. He started to close the door.

The stranger caught it before it could latch, and pushed it back open. He stepped inside. “You know, it’s not a good idea to be closed during peak shopping hours,” he said casually, as though imparting some friendly, well-meaning, not-blood-covered advice. “It’s actually inadvisable to be closed at all. Think of how much business you’re missing out on!” The stranger looked around the bookshop, taking in the dusty, disorganized piles of books, the “DO NOT TOUCH” and “THIS MEANS YOU” signs, the counter where there was no bell to ring for assistance. His smile, if anything, grew wider. “Now this is what I call a fixer-upper,” he said. “I’m Kevin, and would you be Mr. Fell?” 

“No,” Crowley said, and did not take the bloody hand Kevin offered to shake with. “Um.” He was at a bit of a loss, actually. There were probably some useful demonic tricks he could have used to make the man leave, but…

“Aziraphale? A little help here?” 

“Ugh. Coming,” Aziraphale said, and proceeded to mutter things about not asking snakes to do jobs that require a stiff backbone, which were really quite uncalled for. 

Kevin leaned in conspiratorially. “I have quite the deal for your boss.”

“He is _definitely_ not my—”

“Oh, good Heavens,” Aziraphale said. He crossed his arms and glared, putting quite a bit of effort into looking large and disapproving. Looking at him, Crowley got the sense of wings puffed as large as possible, and endless flaming eyes incomprehensible to the human mind, and (most frighteningly) the anger of someone whose quiet afternoon is actively being yanked away from him. “What is this mess?”

Kevin stepped forward, unfazed, hand outstretched. “It is so good to finally meet you,” he said. “You have been a lot of trouble to track down, Mr. Fell.”

“Not trouble enough, it seems.” Aziraphale did not accept the handshake either. 

“My name is Kevin, and I’m a representative from StrexCorp Synernists Inc. You should recognize the name; we’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a very long time. But today is a good day, because I decided to stop by in person, and here we both are!”

“Well, Kevin,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley stepped back from the heavenly influence in his voice, burning white-hot through the air. “It’s been a pleasure, but I think you’re done here. I think what you’d really like is to turn around, go away, take a shower, and, oh, set up a recurring donation to a charitable cause of your choice. That sounds perfect, hmm?” 

Over the past six millennia, Crowley had seen Aziraphale’s Angel Voice do wonders on encroaching armies, building code inspectors, armed robbers, and last-minute holiday shoppers. Kevin blinked and his smile seemed to go a bit pained. Then a different sort of light flared around him, just as blinding, just as _ow,_ but different somehow. As insistently  _right_ as Heaven, but arguing a somewhat different point. 

Kevin said, “No, Mr. Fell, that doesn’t sound like any fun at all. So I’m going to stay right here, and you and I are going to talk business! Believe me, you need it.”

Aziraphale stared at Kevin, offended by his lack of obedience. He looked at Crowley for answers, but Crowley could only shrug.

Kevin rubbed his hands together. “Now, I know how hard it must be to be a small business owner in this day and age. Bills piling up, people not appreciating your work, every day staring down the inevitability of your own collapse. But it doesn’t have to be like that! StrexCorp Synernists Inc. has the ability to rid every independent shop owner of all the problems associated with running a small business.”

Aziraphale was stunned, but not too stunned to leap across the room and snatch a book out from under Kevin’s fingers. “Don’t touch that! It’s a first edition Whitman. As a matter of fact, don’t touch anything. I’ve got signs!”

“I can see that. Terribly outdated, aren’t they? Now, Strex can make sure that your signs are always standardized and up to date. What about,” he held out his hands as he envisioned the words, “ _You Break It, You Buy It, You Please a Smiling God._ ” 

Aziraphale gasped. “Why, I would _never_.” The words “break” and “buy” in relation to his merchandise hurt his very being. 

Crowley squinted at Kevin over the top of his sunglasses. “He’s not talking about our— your god, is he?” 

“That wouldn’t be very ineffable,” Aziraphale said, still sounding wounded. “But I rather assumed he was one of yours.” 

“ _Mine?_ No, absolutely not. He’s all bright and shiny and overbearing; exactly why I left in the first place.” 

“Are you sure? That look with the blood is definitely more popular with your people.” 

“Only some of them. _I,_ for instance, wouldn’t _dream_ of—”

“Gentlemen!” Kevin interrupted. “Please, let’s stay on track. This shop is a disaster, and every moment we spend on idle chit-chat is a moment we’re not working to make it _better._ ” 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Actually, you’re not doing anything to my shop.” 

“Ah ah ah, don’t be hasty. You haven’t heard StrexCorp’s amazing offer!” 

“No.”

“Mr. Fell—"

“He said no,” Crowley said, letting a hiss into his voice. 

“You must be very attached to this place,” Kevin said, ignoring them completely. The shine around him grew in intensity. “Strex knows. Strex understands. Which is why we’re offering to partner with you. You can stay here and run this shop, Strex will provide the security, oversight, promotion, and instruction to make you a success. When you quit or retire or die, Strex will even keep your legacy alive. Who wouldn’t want that?” 

“Gross,” said Crowley. “But eloquent. I almost wish he _was_ with Hell.” Almost. The blood was still disgusting and tacky, and the smile was still really uncomfortable. Maybe Crowley just wished Kevin was _in_ Hell, right now, instead of here. And extremely gagged.

“I wouldn’t,” Aziraphale answered. “And I’ve actually been managing quite well for a very, _very_ long time. So _if you please_ —”

“Imagine this,” Kevin said. The light seemed to be coming out for between his teeth now. “We clean the place up. Make it look more inviting, more like the familiar Strex storefronts our customers know and love. It’s what we’re doing with the rest of the businesses on the block. Just think of how _good_ it would look to have a perfect, uniform set. Imagine hiring several Strex employees to keep the place running smoothly, to keep productivity up. This place would be just bustling with fun and work, work and fun. You won’t be able to tell the two apart! And you’ll never want to stop working, or having fun. Ever!”

“Actually, he doesn’t like either of those things,” Crowley said helpfully.

“And, down the line, Strex can move into bigger and better changes. Like taking out all these, _eugh_ , books, and replacing them with—”

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said, sounding very dangerous indeed. “Did you just say ‘ _eugh’_ at my books?”

“Oh shit,” Crowley murmured, before he could stop himself. He backed away until he hit a table.

“I certainly did,” Kevin said. “Books are _so_ outdated. They’re a hassle to produce and barely turn a profit, they’re filled with unnecessary and boring ideas that distract people from what’s _really_ important, and don’t even get me _started_ on how annoying “rare” editions are.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, veritably glowing with righteous anger, “we’re very certain I don’t have my flaming sword lying around here somewhere, aren’t we?”

“Very.” 

“In that case,” Aziraphale said, stepping forward and herding Kevin backwards, “I suppose I shall have to ‘take this outside’.” 

“Of course, Mr. Fell, of course we don’t _have_ to make these changes right away—”

“Oh, please don’t smite him,” Crowley groaned.

“He deserves it.”

“But even if I don’t discorporate just by being in the area, my bones are going to feel wrong for decades.” 

“That’s a small concern when faced with a soldier of corporate warfare and monopoly takeover who _hates books_.”

“The Smiling God is going to have something to say about this,” Kevin asserted condescendingly. He was still smiling, even as Aziraphale shoved him towards the door. Maybe he physically couldn’t stop. 

“But it’s so _messy._ ” Crowley sighed. There _had_ to be a better way of getting rid of this cheerful, profit-hungry, intrusive—

“Wait, I’ve got it.”

Aziraphale continued shoving Kevin towards the door. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley did not quite dare pull him back in case he got smote by accident, but he did get closer and wave his arms a bit. “I have an idea.”

Aziraphale paused. “What?” he demanded. 

“Before you smite him, why don’t you show him your tax forms and— and ledgers and paperwork and things. Show him how capable you are of running a business. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

“No, he won’t,” Aziraphale said.

“All right, but isn’t giving him a chance the Good thing to do?” 

“I’d really be fascinated to see,” Kevin agreed. “Paperwork is one of my favorite things.” 

“If it works,” Crowley added, “it would make things easier on both of us. You wouldn’t have to report in about it.” 

Aziraphale heaved a sigh. “ _Fine._ You’ll owe me dinner.” 

Crowley grinned. “As long as I haven’t been discorporated.” 

His records were one of the only things Aziraphale kept in order. He had been investigated on tax claims so many times that he’d rather just have things together and keep each visit as short as possible. He’d managed to recreate them after his shop caught fire, through a clever mix of angelic effort and gently reminding the Antichrist that any good shop kept clean records. It only took a moment of rummaging under the counter before he pulled out a thick stack of paper that grew yellower and frailer towards the bottom, marked with Post-Its, and then bookmarks and bits of ribbon from before Post-Its had been invented.

“Here,” he said primly. “No, don’t touch, you’ll get blood all over it.” 

Kevin didn’t seem too pleased about that, but he let Aziraphale spread papers across the desk, and leaned over to inspect them with only minor dripping. “Oh dear,” he said. For the first time, his smile seemed to flicker. “Oh dear. This can’t be right.” 

“They’re very accurate,” Crowley said. 

“The numbers have been confirmed many times,” Aziraphale agreed. 

Kevin blinked. The light around him surged, but his face fell more and more around the perpetual bared teeth. “This says… you sold exactly two books last year. All year. Two.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said sadly. “Very unfortunate. One of them was a lovely illustrated _Alice in Wonderland_ that was a gift from the Antichrist. The woman was so _insistent._ ” 

“And you’re still secure. And the year before you… you…” 

“Three,” Aziraphale admitted miserably. 

“These papers are no fun at all,” Kevin said. “Not at all. You haven’t been productive in the slightest. Not in the past several years.”

“He hasn’t been productive in centuries,” Crowley pointed out. He pulled out a sheet of paper from 1641, which showed a very good year in which Aziraphale had sold only a single book.

“I don’t like this,” Kevin said. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Then perhaps,” Aziraphale said, “you’d better move on and never come back here again.” 

The Shining God, or whatever it was, didn’t like that, but this time Aziraphale’s Angel Voice seemed to take. Kevin swallowed and took a step back from the desk. “You’re an abomination,” he murmured. “That’s… that’s not good business at all. It shouldn’t be possible.” He stumbled out of the shop in the throes of an existential crisis, and Aziraphale and Crowley watched him go with some satisfaction.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “That was thoroughly unpleasant.”

Crowley shuddered. “He’s going to keep doing that, isn’t he? Bullying people out of their lives?”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale waved a hand and cleaned the bloody footprints (and scone crumbs) off his floor. “Perhaps we’ve thrown him into a complete moral transformation.”

Crowley didn’t feel like arguing. They’d already stopped one apocalypse, and this weird smiling corporate god thing was _definitely_ not part of their job description. “So. Any scones left?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “And I believe you owe me dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! We'd love to hear what you thought. 
> 
> You can find more by both of us on AO3, and DwarvenBeardSpores can also be found on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Takeover (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13530987) by [darlingsweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingsweet/pseuds/darlingsweet)




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